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By Root 1413 0

and glassware, almost all of it broken, streamed out from the shelves and onto the countertops and floor. Remains of foodstuffs—grains, rice, beans—lay scattered here and there, desiccated, scattered by rats, and fringed with ancient mold. The chairs were overturned and splintered, and the walls were punctuated with holes made by a sledgehammer or—perhaps—a fist. Plaster had fallen from the ceiling in chunks, making miniature explosions of white powder here and there on the floor, in which vermin tracks and droppings could be clearly seen. D’Agosta played his beam around the room, taking in the whirlwind of destruction. His light stopped in one corner, where a large, long-dried accumulation of what seemed to be blood lay on the floor; on the wall above, at chest height, were several ragged holes made by blasts from a heavy-gauge shotgun with similar sprays of dried blood and offal.

“I’d guess this is where our Mr. Doane met his end,” D’Agosta said, “courtesy of the local sheriff. Looks like one hell of a struggle took place.”

“It would indeed appear to be the site of the shooting,” Pendergast murmured in reply. “However, there was no struggle. This damage occurred before the time of death.”

“What the hell happened, then?”

Pendergast glanced around the mess a moment longer before replying. “A descent into madness.” He shone his light toward a door in the far wall. “Come on, Vincent—let us continue.”

They walked slowly through the first floor, searching the dining room, parlor, pantry, living room, bathrooms, and other spaces of indeterminate use. Everywhere they found the same chaos: overturned furniture, broken glassware, books ripped into dozens of pieces and scattered mindlessly over the floor. The fireplace in the den held hundreds of small bones. Examining them carefully, Pendergast announced that they were squirrel remains, which—based on their relative positions—had been stuffed up the chimney, staying there until decay and putrefaction caused them to fall back down onto the firedogs. In another room they found a dark, greasy mattress, surrounded by the detritus of countless ancient meals: empty tins of Spam and sardines, candy bar wrappers, crushed beer cans. One corner of the room appeared to have been used as an open latrine, with no attempt at sanitation or concealment. There were no paintings on any of the walls of the rooms, black-framed or otherwise. In fact, the only decorative works the walls displayed were endless frantic doodles in purple Magic Marker: a storm of squiggles and manic jagged lines that was disquieting to look at.

“Jesus,” D’Agosta said. “What could Helen possibly have wanted here?”

“It is exceedingly curious,” Pendergast replied, “especially considering that at the time of her visit, the Doane family was the pride of Sunflower. This decline into criminal madness happened much later.”

Thunder rumbled ominously outside, accompanied by flashes of livid lightning through the shuttered windows. They descended into the basement, which, though less cluttered, showed signs of the same blizzard of lunatic destruction so evident on the first floor. After a thorough and fruitless search, they climbed to the second floor. Here the whirlwind of ruin was somewhat abated, although there were plenty of troubling signs. In what was clearly the son’s bedroom, one wall was almost completely covered in awards for academic excellence and distinguished community service—based on their dates, taking place over a year or two around the time of Helen Pendergast’s visit. The facing wall, however, was equally crowded with the desiccated heads of animals—pigs, dogs, rats—all hammered into the wood in the roughest manner possible, with no effort made to clean or even exsanguinate them: dried blood ran down in heavy streams from each mummified trophy onto those hammered in place below.

The daughter’s room was even more creepy for showing a complete lack of personality: the only feature of note was a row of similarly bound red volumes in a bookshelf that was otherwise empty, save for an anthology of poetry.

They